


Last Time

by orphan_account



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Smut, NSFW
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-24
Updated: 2014-11-24
Packaged: 2018-02-26 21:22:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2666756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“This is the last time,” Clarke tells Bellamy breathlessly, just as he’s sliding her underwear down her thighs, “only once. Then we’re done.”</p><p>He gives her an irritating, know-it-all kind of smirk. “Sure, Princess,” he replies, pressing his lips to the jut of her pelvis.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Last Time

**Author's Note:**

> Because I really fucking love that trope where your OTP gets together for a ‘one night stand’ and then realises that they can’t get enough of each other.

“This is the last time,” Clarke tells Bellamy breathlessly, just as he’s sliding her underwear down her thighs, “only once. Then we’re done.”

He gives her an irritating, know-it-all kind of smirk. “Sure, Princess,” he replies, pressing his lips to the jut of her pelvis.

 

“I mean it.”

“I know you do.”

“You don’t  _sound_  like you kn –  _fuck._ Shit. Oh – ” she grasps his hair, “ –  _Jesus_  – fuck –”

Bellamy swirls her clit a second time with the tip of his tongue, eliciting another stream of profanity (it’s been a  _long time_  since the bunker and Finn), grinning. “Rethinking the  _one time only_ thing, Princess?”

“Shut up and do that again.”

///

Two weeks later, and she’s eating her words, pressed up against a tree in the depth of the forest, Bellamy’s hot breath in her ear.

He’s got one hand up her shirt, the other with two fingers tucked inside her already. “One time, huh?”

“ _Last_ time,” she retorts through gritted teeth, “hurry up. We haven’t got long.”

“Won’t be a problem. You come quick for me, don’t you, Princess?” he rasps, drawing a slow path up from the wetness of her core to her clit with one of his long, dexterous fingers. “Soaked already. Should’ve known you’d be eager.”

Clarke whimpers a little, but bites it back. She doesn’t want to give him that kind of satisfaction – or more than he’s already got, anyway. He already struts around camp as if he’s won some kind of  _competition,_ no need to add extra swagger to his step. Not that he’s entirely wrong, though. Clarke supposes that he sort of did win, if making her have to plant herself head-first into a pillow to mask the sounds of her ( _three_ ) orgasms counts as a victory.

It totally does. Oh God.

She voices none of this. “Of course you’re into dirty talk.” Is her terse reply, even though she can’t quite manage the brusqueness she wants when she’s tilting her hips back to give him better access.

A low, self-satisfied chuckle and the scrape of teeth along the shell of Clarke’s ear is her reward. He begins to fuck her, deep and slow, two fingers drawing in and out, circling her clit with every third stroke. She can barely keep from hissing. “This isn’t dirty talk,” Bellamy says conversationally, “it’s the truth.”

“I’m not  _eager –_ ”

“You are. And this isn’t going to be the last time.”

“It – it is.”

“Really?” he asks, moving, if possible, even closer. Short-bitten fingernails scrape underneath the curve of her breast; his thighs warm against the backs of hers. “I think you like it too much for that, Princess. You get wound up real tight, don’t you?”

Clarke chokes back a moan, not quite catching it in the sharp of her teeth – the tail end slips out, loose and loud and wholly  _wrecked_  in the quiet surrounding them. She breathes harshly, chest rising and falling like she’s being chased by Grounders rather than with some boy’s dirty hands on her.

Only – and she’ll never admit this to anyone, barely even to herself – Bellamy’s touch doesn’t feel as caked in filth as she thought it would. Instead, it’s like it burns away the sacrilege; all that pain and betrayal and bitter tears gives way to the complete and utter normalcy of a boy and a girl standing so close it’s like their bones are knitted together.

“Yeah,” Clarke admits, raggedly. “You’re right.”

“So … ?” His tone is underlaced with smug satisfaction. He expects a  _please._

She turns her head to look at him, stare right into his pitch dark eyes, full of soul. Clarke gives him a smirk of her own that’s brimming with challenge, with quirked lips and hard eyes. “So  _unwind me_.”

Bellamy, she decides, tastes best when he’s got something to win.

///

If Clarke were doing this with anyone else, she would be more honest with herself.

Actually, no. If Clarke were fucking say, Finn (never again) or any of the other 100 that are around her age (which,  _no._ Even though some of them are actually a little older than her, they treat her like such a mom that the thought – no.), it would be over by now. She wouldn’t have to say  _last time last time last time_ over and over again in their ear like some kind of anchor, like she’ll tip over some dark abyss and never be able to get back up if she doesn’t.

If it were anyone but  _Bellamy Blake,_ he of the insane upper body strength (seriously, sometimes he just.  _Lifts_ her.) and the infuriating, albeit totally conducive to their running of the camp personality, it would have stopped by now.

But, you know. He’s hot as fuck and she’s kind of resigned herself to the fact that they’ll be spending the rest of their lives together anyway, so why not get something out of it, right? It’s just physical.

About two months into their super top-secret affair, Clarke finds herself wanting to hold his hand more and more, finds herself liking his jealous stares when Sterling gives her a hug in thanks for setting his broken thumb, finds herself seeking his touch almost every day, and thinks  _ah, shit._

///

“You had sex.” Is Raven’s flat greeting, upon Clarke’s re-entry into the drop ship.

“ _What_?” she recoils, even though it’s technically true.

OK, definitely true. She had sex. With her co-leader. Like, fifteen minutes ago. He’s probably still naked, actually. Clarke has learned lots of things about Bellamy since they started their little tryst thing, and one of them is that he likes to loiter, post-coitus. He also is basically a cat.

Seriously. Smug, prone to grump, lounges about like he owns the place, can’t lie down anywhere sunny because he gets sleepy. And that’s section A of the list.

Raven raises one eyebrow, lips curling up briefly at the corners. “Don’t lie to me, Clarke. You had sex.” She points. “Hickeys.”

Clarke slaps a hand to her neck. “I – damn it. Yeah.”

“Alright,” Raven hoists herself up onto the bench where Clarke usually does the bulk of her medical work, apparently ignoring the dried bloodstains. “Spill, Griffin. Tell me.”

Clarke sighs, dropping her bag on the spot next to Raven. She starts unpacking herbs, seaweed, et cetera, bundling them into separate containers carefully. “We don’t have time. I’m busy.”

“Leave your herbs alone for a sec, OK? I wanna have girl talk.” She tries to take the packs from her, shuffling over on the bench.

“The herbs are  _important,_ Raven.” Clarke snipes, wrenching them from her grasp. “They need to be sorted into different sections, otherwise  _everybody’s_ gonna mix them up, and Jasper and Monty will try to smoke it –”

“Oh my God, Clarke, just ask Bellamy to do it.”

“Bellamy wouldn’t –”

“Yeah, he so would. Just, I don’t know. Do your dynamic duo voice.”

Clarke gives Raven her shrewdest glare. “ _Dynamic duo_ voice?”

She laughs. “ _Yeah,_ ” like it’s obvious, “you go all low and  _Bellamy,_ ” she says huskily, “ _I can’t do this without you._ We totally thought you were doing it on purpose and –  _oh my god_ you’re fucking Bellamy!”

“Shut up!” Clarke hisses, but Raven starts to gasp, mouth wide open.

“Holy  _shit_  –”

“Raven –”

“You,” Raven says, lower now (thank  _God_ ), “and  _Bellamy Blake._ ”

“It – it was one time,” Clarke replies lamely, even though her head’s chanting  _lie lie lie,_ “and it was the last.”

Her head keeps chanting. Raven looks dubious.

///

Clarke Griffin, eighteen years of age, decides to cordially invite whatever deity exists to smite fucking Raven Reyes with all their power, the minute Bellamy comes barging into her tent, cheeks flushed and eyes furious.

“Did you fucking tell  _Raven_ about us?” he demands, one hand gripping the canvas flap.

She almost reminds him that, technically, there isn’t an ‘us’ applicable to their situation – but Clarke takes a second look at the way his jaw is set and decides that it’s probably not the best time to discuss their weird-ass relationship.

“No. She guessed.”

“ _How._ ”

“I guess  _someone_ couldn’t resist making some stupid Alpha claim, huh?” Clarke spits, yanking aside the sweater she’s been forced to wear – despite the heat – to showcase the purplish bruises he’s sucked onto her throat.

A flicker of pride. Bellamy ducks his head, doing that angry shifting thing he does when he’s feeling sheepish but doesn’t want to apologise. “You could be a little more discreet. She keeps,” his lips twist in an expression of distaste, “ _winking_ at me.”

“ _I_ could be a little more discreet? You could stop – stop  _strutting._ ”

“I don’t strut,  _Princess_.”

“Please.” Clarke mutters. “ _Everybody_ can tell what you’ve been doing. You walk around with this stupid look on your face – like the cat who got the cream –”

He gives her that smile again, the  _I’ll see what I can do._ “Kinda did, though. Get the cream.”

Her mouth drops open. “ _Bellamy._ ”

“I know.” He winces, scowling again. “I’m – that was –”

“Gross?”

His scowl deepens. “I was gonna say  _uncalled for._ ”

“So,” Clarke fixes him with a stern look, “ _so_ gross.”

“You didn’t think I was that  _gross_ an hour ago!” Bellamy’s got that air of frustration about him again, like he always seems to have around her nowadays. Sure, there’s none of that patronizing fury that he used to carry around on his shoulders – but sometimes Clarke feels like she’s missing something big, something he wants her to notice. But then again, it’s  _Bellamy –_ he’d just tell her, right? Drag her to the wall and debrief her on his own feelings or whatever vaguely militant method of communicating his emotions to her he’s cooked up next.

“An hour ago you weren’t making dumbass crude jokes. It doesn’t matter anymore. This  _thing_ ,” she gestures between them, “has to stop.”

“Why?” He has that obstinate expression again. The one he usually wears when Octavia wants to go chase the butterflies. The  _I’m not backing down so you might as well just do as I say_. Unfortunately for him, both Clarke and Octavia have never been the types to do as they’re told.

“ _Why_?” she splutters. “Because – people are going to find out, Bellamy!” She starts to pace. “Raven will tell Monty and/or Jasper, they’ll throw a fucking party and Octavia will be all  _ooh I knew it_ and Monroe’s gonna laugh at me and. And. Ugh.”

“Princess,” Bellamy gives a gusty sigh, tilting his head at her imploringly, “I guarantee you that the only person who gives a shit about your sex life is Spacewalker. And maybe Monroe.”

“For the last time, Monroe is  _not_ into me.”

“She gives you some real intense looks for someone who’s not into you, Princess.”

“ _You_ stare at me all the time!” Clarke snaps back, but then kind of tries to suck her words back into her mouth because  _shit_. That’s a terrible argument, and also kind of awkward.

Bellamy smirks.

“I – oh,” she says, because she suddenly realises that Bellamy’s smirk is very close to her own stubbornly jutting lip ( _not_ pouting, thank you very much Jasper or anyone else who likes to apply like synonyms to her perfectly justified irritation) and to be honest, it’s distracting. Like a lot.

Her fingers are in his hair before she even thinks about it, and then their mouths are  _closer_ , and then all thoughts of ending things between them kind of slipping to the wayside. What with Bellamy Blake’s (frankly ridiculous) hands on her ass, and all.

But this is the last time. Honest.

~*~

Jasper grins at Raven, rubbing sleep from his eyes with the back of one hand as she saunters over to him. “Hey, Reyes.” It’s early, and he’s never been that much of a morning person, but Raven usually manages to procure some kind of caffeinated substance if you’re nice to her.

“Jordan.” She greets, and promptly takes the shovel he’s holding.

“Uh, I have latrine duty –”

“Remember that bet we made? Like a month back?”

He’s confused for a moment, but the memory of a hasty shaking of hands, imbued with a  _lot_ of Monty’s Miracle Moonshine comes back to him eventually. “Oh yeah!” he says, laughing. “I said that if Clarke and Bellamy were doin’ the do by the end of this month, then I’d take on your latrine –  _wait._ ”

Raven gives him one of her half-smirks. “Guess I’ve got latrine duty this week, huh?” she intones, walking away. The fact that she’s literally gotta shovel shit double-time doesn’t seem to phase her.

Jasper opens and shuts his mouth like a fish, gasping for air. “Oh shit!” he says (on later accounts of the even, he will deny point-blank that he may have screeched on this last part). “Oh fucking  _shit!_ Holy fuck! Oh my – MONTY. MONTY.”

“The hell are you screeching about, Jordan?” comes Bellamy’s  _it’s so early and I have my grumpy pants on_ voice, directly behind him.

But Jasper has no time for such bullshit. “ _You,_ ” he says, a wide grin splitting his face, “and  _Clarke._ ”

Bellamy tries a scoff. It doesn’t work. “Tell anyone and the goggles  _die._ ”

“Got it, BG.”

“ _BG?_ ”

“Bellamy Griffin? I’m assuming you’d wanna take her last name –  _ow,_ shit!” Jasper ducks as Bellamy tries to clip his ear again, lanky limbs akimbo.

“Shut your mouth, Jordan.” he says lowly, poisonously.

“Alright, alright. Jesus,” Jasper straightens the goggles atop his head. “So touchy. It’s like you’re not even getting laid.”

Bellamy punches him so hard he has bruises for  _days._ But, like, no latrine duty, and Clarke is apparently super-chill for hours post-coitus, so it’s totally worth it.


End file.
